


Stardew Valley Fair

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Drabble, Festivals, Fluff, M/M, POV Second Person, Stardew Valley Fair, but they are there, just so you know, not many, player headcanons, player is just glad to be out of the city and away from his awful job, salty!player, sassy!player, unnamed player
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because we needed more Harvey/Male Player shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stardew Valley Fair

**Author's Note:**

> i rated this teen, but it's a mature-teen due to some discussion of pornography consumption, and some cussing. also this unnamed player misquotes a certain historical figure rather poorly. just so we're all aware - that's his ignorance showing, not mine. as a history major, i feel obligated to clarify that. :P

* * *

It says something that the highlight of the annual autumn festival is listening to Harvey whine about Gus cooking meat too close to the livestock. It’s not like they’d know, you might’ve said, once, but you’ve been here almost a year now, and you seem to have forgotten your bitterness in your cubicle at Joja, the day you walked out. Thank God.

Still, you’re a bit of a grump when things don’t go your way – or, more reasonably, when they don’t seem fair. Losing on the wheel, you can handle. Gambling’s always been a good way to pass the time, but you’ve never been one to hold a grudge against Lady Luck. At the end of the day, bread is bread. You can always earn more money.

Nah, it’s feeling inept that bothers you – the creeping doubt that maybe you’re not worth it, maybe you’ll fail, maybe your Grandpa was wrong in picking you to run this farm.

“All I’m saying is, that slingshot game is rigged,” you want to say, because it’s probably true. You don’t, though, because it’s just as likely it’s your depth perception – you bet ol’ Marlon has more vision in one eye than you have in two, but that’s you all over. Too proud to go to the eye doctor. Too proud to wear specs.

You hated medical personnel in the city. They were all the same with their ‘you look so pale – you should go outside more’ and their ‘your blood pressure is unusually high for a man in his thirties’ and their ‘your vices are bordering on addictions’ crap. To hell with that. You moved out here to get away from the crowds, the pollution, the nags, and the goddamn doctors.

Harvey squints behind his glasses, nervously chewing on his lower lip. You wonder if a man his age could be a virgin. He seems so awkward about it all. About the way you’ve been dancing around each other for months.

Not that you’ve been much better. Your apartment in the city was the kind of dismal shithole bachelors and cockroaches cohabitate. Considering yourself a man of old fashioned sentiments, you actually paid for porn, and got it old school, in the mail. On VHS. It was an idiosyncrasy that would’ve pissed off your floor manager, had he known. There was none of Joja’s forward thinking, go-getter attitude in watching two men from the good old days of ‘70s skin flicks suck each other off, all hairy-chested and mustachioed. That was mostly what did it for you – the thought that your boss would be disappointed. It was petty, and probably unhealthy, but hey, wasn’t it Karl Marx who said workers should take their pleasure where and when they can?

The sun is sinking in the sky. You spent half the afternoon trying to win a bloody rarecrow that now you have to carry around – didn’t think that one through, of course. They could at least have provided a cart. With the light dying slowly, and your eyes are sore from too many late nights, hoeing for your grange, tripping over the endless boulders and sticks that litter your land, working yourself ragged and going loopy with exhaustion, laughing at such petty things as the word ‘hoeing.’ The pain is familiar, reminds you of the home you left in the urban hell that you don’t miss. It makes you feel old, but it also softens the edges of Harvey’s face. The worried line of his mustache. The crease on his brow.

You used to hate doctors.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re squinting.”

“So are you,” you sneer, but not unkindly. You shift the stupid scarecrow which has become a third wheel, getting in between you both.

“I wish you’d let me look at your eyes.”

“Thought you wanted to dispense with the ‘doctor-patient relationship,’ there, pal.”

It’s a bit close to home – a bit too blatant. Harvey turns red as a ripe tomato, which warms your gut like homemade ale.

“Aw, hell, four-eyes, you know I can’t resist donating my body to science. I promise – soon as I’m done with the harvest, you can poke me all you like. In my eyes, that is.”

The eyebrow waggle is definitely too much, but you think you catch a trace of a smile, a twitch of that mustache, even as he blusters and looks away.

It makes you laugh. It makes your whole damn year.


End file.
